


it’s such a good day (maybe i’ll stay)

by afrakaday



Category: Battlestar Galactica, Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrakaday/pseuds/afrakaday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sparks fly and a connection is made when a newly retired Commander and the former Secretary of Education meet by chance in a Caprican bookshop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it’s such a good day (maybe i’ll stay)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://bsg-epics.livejournal.com/profile)[**bsg_epics**](http://bsg-epics.livejournal.com/) big bang.  Many, many thanks to [](http://nixmom.livejournal.com/profile)[**nixmom**](http://nixmom.livejournal.com/) and [](http://fragrantwoods.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://fragrantwoods.livejournal.com/)**fragrantwoods** for beta and encouragement.  
>  Fanwork: [](http://marzipanilla.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://marzipanilla.livejournal.com/)**marzipanilla** made the gorgeous cover art below. You rock, lady! Thanks so much for sharing your skills.  
>  Suggested listening: This amazing [FANMIX](http://8tracks.com/marzipanilla/it-s-such-a-nice-day-maybe-i-ll-stay), courtesy of [](http://marzipanilla.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://marzipanilla.livejournal.com/)**marzipanilla**.

 

 

 

[ ](http://8tracks.com/marzipanilla/it-s-such-a-nice-day-maybe-i-ll-stay)

 

 

 

He isn’t sure it’s her at first. The flash of dark red hair, the sway of her hips as she walks down the aisle filled with books on Colonial history, tug at his memory.

She looks more relaxed than the woman he’d last seen leading the applause for his speech during the decommissioning, and it throws him a bit as he remembers how tightly strung he’d thought her. She’s wearing a simple black wrap dress in place of that odd lavender suit, flats instead of heels. But a few more moments of observation convince him. It’s her.

He knows he looks different, too. His hair is longer, which makes the gray patches stand out more. He’s replaced his duty blues with their closest civilian counterpart, dark jeans and a navy sweater. Retired with nowhere to be, he’s whittled down his midsection paunch with near-daily sparring sessions against guys half his age.

Bill’s intrigued and a little aroused at the idea that _she_ might be _here_ , of all places. He doubles back and around the aisle so he can get a better look at her as she browses the travel section, jumping behind a shelf when she turns and walks in his direction.

He keeps an eye on her progress as she meanders the shop. She thinks she’s hunting books, but she’s the prey, he thinks to himself as he pushes up his sleeves. He’s pleased when she stops in front of the mysteries, scornful when he sees she’s picked up _Dark Day._ Shouldn’t the Secretary of Education have read that one already?

“Take a picture, Commander, it lasts longer,” she says without looking up from her examination of the dust jacket.

He clears his throat and looks around: _who, me?_ soon turns to _why me_. He’s grateful for his dark complexion as he feels the heat rise in his cheeks at being caught looking.

“I recognized you, too,” she says. “Come here often?”

He chuckles at her sardonic invocation of a pick-up line and moves closer to her, leaning against the shelf she’s been browsing.

“Got a lot of time on my hands these days,” he says.

“Same here,” she says, and a flash of sadness crosses her face. “I ... retired, myself, shortly after the decommissioning.”

He takes a moment to consider her. She’s certainly less … _hostile_ … than she’d been on board his ship, advocating for a networked computer system with barely veiled disdain. It’s worth a shot, he decides.

“Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” he asks. “Once you’re done browsing?”

She looks him up and down, and looks pleasantly surprised at what she sees. Her acquiescing nod triggers the flood of male pride that washes over him. It feels good.

“I’m finished,” she says, gesturing toward the copy of _Dark Day_ nestled in the crook of her arm. “Have you read it?”

“One of my favorites,” he confirms. “I haven’t read it in a few years, but I’m pretty sure it made the move to my new place.”

She leans back, sizing him up once more. “Perhaps you could just lend it to me, then.”

It’s been a while, but he recognizes her invitation for what it is. His eyes hold hers as he reaches and gently takes the book from her, returning it to the shelf. “I make it a point to never lend books.”

Her posture becomes defensive and she narrows her eyes.

“But I do give them as gifts.”

Roslin’s lips twitch upward, and he knows they’re on the same page.

 

 

“Why did you pick me up?” she asks bluntly as they walk together away from the shop. The question is curious, not accusatory. “I know you don’t even like me.”

“Didn’t,” he says, then clarifies at her raised eyebrow. “I didn’t like you. I don’t know you.” He reaches down for her hand, clasps it lightly. “Maybe I’d like to.”

She hums and links her arm with his. Her skin is soft against his bare forearm, and she leans into him experimentally as they approach his apartment building.

“Nice place,” she comments, looking up at the high-rise, and Bill is grateful that he took Lee’s advice and gave up his slummy crash pad for something less austere after retirement. Carolanne’s recent remarriage had brought a stop to the alimony payments he’d been making for years and freed up enough cubits to easily afford the rent on the spacious condo.

He shrugs modestly and gestures for her to proceed first through the heavy glass-and-gilt door held open by a doorman.

Her dress flows fluidly from her waist, leaving less to the imagination than her business attire had. His dick swells at the thought of sliding that dress down over her curves, leaving her in just--

Laura clears her throat, and her expectant stare makes him realize he’s missed something.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, what floor?”

“Oh. Nineteen.”

She punches the button the same way he wants to frak her--with determination and a little finesse.

The ride to his floor is interminably long, the tension heightening between them with each surge upward. At least they’re alone, he thinks, as he steps closer to her, until his body is nearly flush with hers.

She leans back against him, pressing her ass against his pelvis. He counters her move, places his hands at the gentle swell of her hips. A chime signals their arrival on his floor, and she steps away, but his hand finds its way to rest at the small of her back to lead her to his door.

Her eyes are shining with anticipation and recklessness, and he thinks how she looks like a different person from that stern, downtrodden politician he’d met a few months earlier.

Whether it’s the freedom of forced retirement or some kind of military fetish that has her slipping her hand into his back pocket to squeeze his ass, he’s not sure, and he sure as hell doesn’t care at the moment; it’s all he can do to finally ease the key into the lock and grant them both entrance.

“Coffee?” he offers as they walk past the kitchen, giving them both one last chance to avert where this seems to be heading.

She shakes her head firmly and looks around the living room, taking in the handful of framed photographs on the windowsill, the shelves and piles of books that he’s still working on organizing. “No, thank you.”

“That book is around here somewhere--”

“Later,” she says with a smirk, coming up to place her hands against his chest and stop him from pacing. “Where’s--”

“Bedroom’s straight back,” he says. “Look, Laura--may I call you Laura?”

“Gods, I hope so,” she says seriously, trailing her hands down to his belt buckle. “We’re both off duty...Bill.”

Somehow the loss of his command (and her role in it) stings a little less with her fingers toying at his fly, untucking his shirt.

“This is crazy,” he says, even as he admits to himself that he’d had thoughts of her doing exactly this within moments of first placing her in the bookstore.

“It is crazy, perhaps,” she says, not meeting his eyes as her fingers’ efforts become more purposeful than merely exploratory. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t. . .”

( _true?_ )

“. . . a fine idea,” she finishes after successfully unbuttoning his pants.

He reaches out and cups the side of her face, his fingers tipping her head up so eyes meet his. “Come on, then.”

He leads her back to the bedroom, utilitarian with its generic black and grey bachelor bedding set, and he pulls back the heavy curtains to allow more light into the dark room. There are no buildings this tall facing the windows along his side of the building, and he wants to see her drenched in sunbeams.

When he turns around, she’s untying the fabric belt at her waist and slipping out of her shoes. He follows her lead and kicks off his own loafers, then goes to her and places his arms at her shoulders, effectively halting her movements. “Hey. I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

“Then maybe you better start,” she replies, and then her lips are against his, his tongue stroking hers, the tension between them heightened even more with each caress, withdrawal, repeat.

Her fingers twine in his hair, using the leverage to pull his lips and body closer to her own. It’s electric, this surge of surprising feeling and sensuality and unmitigated want. Soon he’s fully hard and her hands have made their way down from the nape of his neck to free his cock from its material confines. He groans when her palm strokes against his length, so soft and yet demanding.

His head spins, and he realizes, hazily, that it might be time to relocate to the bed, to finally divest her of her flowing dress and see what’s beneath.

She’s already done some of the work for him, and a gentle tug to the tie at the waist loosens the dress enough that he’s able to gently slide it down off her shoulders to pool at her feet.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Her dress falls easily from her slim frame--too easily, perhaps, though he doesn’t seem to notice, distracted as he is by her bared skin and busy hands.

He moves to unfasten her bra, and even though she aches to let him do it, to feel her stiff-peaked nipples brush against the cotton knit of his sweater, she steps back and eases down onto the bed.

This is dangerous--she is letting him get too close--but at the moment, this anticipation is headier than anything she’s felt in a long time, and she can’t bring herself to care that it might be a mistake.

Ever the dutiful soldier, he picks her dress up for her and drapes it over the back of a chair before joining her at the edge of the bed.

“Gods, you’re--” He gestures generally along the length of her body, apparently unable to complete his thought.

“Here?” she supplies for him, laughing a little. She knows that’s not what he was trying to say. “Who would have thought?" She’s not going to say something trite like _I don’t usually do this kind of thing_ \--she doesn’t even know him, yet she suspects he doesn’t either. But she’ll acknowledge that they’ve bypassed a few formalities in getting to his bed.

“I think we’re doing things out of order,” he says, mirroring her thoughts. He sits down next to her and clasps his hand over her bare knee, giving it a light squeeze. His fingers trail along the inside of her right leg, from her thigh down to her calf, before reaching for the hem of his sweater to pull it over his head.

“Time is in short supply, sometimes, even among the retired,” she says cryptically. “I don’t need to be wined and dined, Bill. This is fine.”

“I think we can do better than fine,” he says, finally having gotten his pants off and turning to her. He runs his hand along the side of her arm, over her shoulder, down to caress the tops of her breasts. She wriggles backward and his hand trails lower, down her sternum and over her belly to the waistband of her panties. He stops there, and his touch has awakened something inside her, sent her arousal soaring, and suddenly she’s crazed with a need to push past his tentativeness and get him to really frak her. It’s what she came here for, after all.

Not that she’d left her house that morning intending to cruise the bookstore as if it was a singles bar. But she’s having such a good day. Good enough that she has the energy to shift herself over his lap and straddle him, wrapping her arms around his neck and allowing her heated sex to brush pleasantly against his tented shorts. “Yes,” she whispers into his ear. It’s the answer to a multitude of unasked questions: _do you want this? do you trust me? do I know you?_

She suckles on his earlobe, places kisses along the side of his neck. He lets her explore him this way for a few moments, then growls before turning his face to capture her lips with his.

 _This_ is what she came here for...to surrender, to submit, not to her illness or the sadness of the last few months ( _years_ ), but to the passion that they raise in each other. She pushes back, with her tongue, lips, teeth nibbling and pulling at his full bottom lip. His tongue parries with hers, his hands slide down her flanks, cupping her ass and pulling her even closer to him.

The heat of his body against hers sparks something deep within her--melts her heart, relaxes her limbs. Her body knows what it wants; it’s come alive, it’s at ease, for him. It’s why she’s here.

This time, when he tries to unfasten her bra, she doesn’t stop him.

He has a long scar bisecting his chest, she notices through her haze. Who is he to judge?

Not like her frakking oncologist, the one she found who was willing to operate but openly disdained her decision to refuse diloxan treatment.

Bill doesn’t say anything when the cups fall away from her breasts, nor when he traces the long scar that runs from her underarm, along the underside of her breast, then up to her left nipple.

He fondles the scarred breast tenderly while his mouth goes to work on the right one. It’s amazing, the soft suction of his mouth against the tightened nub, and she’s glad she didn’t insist on wearing her bra; she’d all but forgotten how much pleasure a non-clinical touch could bring.

His dick is rock hard, and though it feels wonderful as she grinds against it, it’s the thought of it deep inside her that brings the rush of moisture that will make that possible. “Gods, Bill,” she pants, clutching at his shoulders as she writhes against him. He’s still suckling her breast, teasing the nipple with his teeth and then soothing it with his lips and tongue. “I want you inside me,” she says, rubbing harder against him. Her arousal is deliciously unbearable, the nerve endings in her nipples and clit producing alternating shockwaves of pleasure.

His mouth eventually travels up to find her lips once more, and his fingers slide through her unruly tresses as he lavishes her with deep, sensual kisses. She runs her hands down his side to the waistband of his shorts to remind him that fabric barriers remain between them.

“Patience,” he mutters against her mouth, though he does reluctantly withdraw his hands from her hair so that he can shift her off of him and take off his shorts. Laura takes the opportunity to remove her lace panties and then pushes him gently back onto the bed.

“Very nice,” she comments as she inspects his cock, running a fingertip from root to tip before leaning in to do the same with her tongue. A strangled noise comes from the back of Bill’s throat as his eyes close and he leans back while Laura takes him fully in her mouth.

He’s thick, thicker than she can remember ever having before. The thought of him filling her completely, her body stretching to accept him, sends a shiver of anticipation down her spine, and she applies more pressure with her mouth and hand.

Within minutes he’s tapping at her shoulder, pleading for her to stop before she sends him over the edge. “Gods, Laura.” She tugs gently at his balls before releasing him from her mouth, and he lets out a relieved groan.

She takes a moment to regroup, finding herself slightly dizzy when she stands from her crouched position--whether from lack of oxygen while giving head, the rush of the whole unexpected situation, or her illness, she’s not sure. Bill’s settled back into the center of the bed, looking at her with an unabashed desire that she never could have imagined coming from him when they’d first met ( _fought_ ) at the decommissioning.

Their initial clash, she can appreciate now, was the flip side of this effect they seem to have on one another, an amplification of feeling that’s a lot more fun in the bedroom than the ward room. Of course, the change in context helps, too. He’s looking at her hungrily, but waiting for direction, for Laura to take the lead. She can’t imagine the Commander acting this way with his crew (or with unwelcome bureaucratic visitors, for that matter), but Bill’s going to let her dictate how they do this. And for all she wanted to submit to him, let him make her forget, she’s finding this whole experience surprisingly fun in its own right, and she’s happy to climb aboard and have her way with him.

Her hip pops when she swings a leg over to straddle him this time--she hasn’t exactly been keeping up with her yoga regimen--and she giggles. “Been a while,” she admits softly.

He doesn’t say anything to that, just reaches up to touch her breasts, tease her nipples until they’re flushed a deep purple-red. He’s not making her forget, exactly, but he’s giving her pleasure that she hadn’t thought possible-- unselfconscious, immersive. Laura arches into his touch and slides her slick cunt along his cock.

She’s unbelievably wet, more so with each stroke of her clit against the hot, smooth skin of his dick. When she finally takes him in hand to guide him in, it’s all sweet relief as his thick girth fills her and pushes against the spots that had been aching for touch since before her panties even came off.

“Thank you,” she finds herself saying without thinking. He laughs and grasps her waist as he pushes his hips up, filling her even more completely. Laura leans down closer to him, embarrassed.

“You feel so frakking good,” he rumbles against her ear. She squeals when he follows his declaration with a sharp bite to her earlobe, then a sloppy kiss to the side of her neck.

“Yes,” she agrees, shifting against him so that her nipples brush against his chest with each thrust. She sets an even tempo, not too fast. She wants to draw out these sensations as long as possible. Each stroke feels amazing, even more so when his hands move from her waist down to cup and knead her ass.

They’re good together, better than she and Richard ever were. She pushes the thought of her ex-lover out of her mind and sits up straighter, pushing her hands against Bill’s thick, muscular chest for leverage. The change in angle feels good; Bill’s finger slipping between their bodies for her clit to rub against feels even better.

“Oh, gods,” she moans, the tension rising. “Yes, there, gods Bill, don’t stop that.”

“Come on, Laura,” he encourages her. “I wanna feel you come.”

At his words, her pussy clenches and quivers around his cock and she moves faster against him, his fingertip at her clit sending waves of tightening pleasure through her body. “Yes,” she cries, rolling her hips so the tip of his cock hits the spot that will push her over the edge. He pumps his hips harder to meet her thrusts, and when he reaches his free hand up to pinch her nipple, she comes hard, her whole body contracting around him again and again.

As she drifts down from her dreamy, unreal state, her mind is clear of everything except the feeling of this man, solid beneath her and still hard inside her. She collapses on top of him, needing a moment to collect herself.

She realizes as she slowly comes back to the present that, oh yes, his dick is certainly still there and hard, throbbing pleasantly in her heat. And he’s stroking her back with long trails of his fingertips and making soothing sounds. Laura lifts her head and realizes for the first time that her cheeks are slightly damp with a few escaped tears.

“Wow,” she says softly. “Hmmm.”

There are no more words for the catharsis that’s just taken place, so she rolls off him and nudges at him to get on top. His cock glistens in the light, coated in her juices, beckoning to Laura in a way that she can’t help but reach out and give him a few pumps. She brings her fingers to her mouth and sucks on them, tasting her own pleasure.

 

* * *

 

Bill’s pretty satisfied that he was able to satisfy her before coming himself-- it had taken all of his restraint, and even some running through mnemonics for his crew’s names in his mind to distract himself, a diversionary trick he hadn’t felt the need to use in years. (Never with Carolanne, never with the girls Saul bought and paid for on shore leaves.) But when she strokes him and then licks her fingers, he nearly comes all over her belly as he’s maneuvering to get on top of her.

Her eyes meet his, and there’s permission there, and gratitude, and his heart aches a little at the thought of whatever brought her to this point-- scarred, unemployed, and getting frakked by a near-stranger in the middle of the day.

But he doesn’t pity her for it, for those are all things he can relate to. He’s lived with his own scar for a long time, the result of a bullet wound received in a bar fight while he was in the merchant fleet, and he appreciates that she’d reacted to it with mild interest (rather than avoidance or, worse, revulsion). Laura’s scar is an angry new pink, a testament to a more recent invasion. There’s no question as to desire on either of their parts, he realizes; she’s soft and pliant beneath him, and her legs part eagerly and her pussy accepts him easily when he finally stops ruminating on their respective scars and how they came to be here, together.

She wraps her legs high around his waist, urging him on, arching into each thrust. Part of him wants to slow down, to take his time and build up to it again, but she has other ideas, and so do his hips. The angle allows for a deep penetration, and she cries out with pleasure each time he bottoms out against her.

He sees her focusing on his lips as he fraks her, her own pink lips parted and panting, and he’s seized by a need to claim her mouth as he’s claiming her body. He leans closer, enough to capture her lips and invade her mouth with a tongue that mirrors each thrust. She loves it-- humming her approval, accepting his tongue, seeking it out with her own. His hand winds in her hair, holding her face close to his, heightening their connection even more. Her hands grip his biceps tightly, desperately--he can feel her hands there as he kisses her deeply, and he thinks how he can’t remember the last time a woman really wanted to touch him, feel as much of him as possible. But somehow, improbably, Laura does.

She’s beautiful, writhing beneath him, and in this moment as his hips piston back and forth against her, in and out, he’s relieved that he’s spent the past few months of retirement getting into shape rather than drinking himself into oblivion with Saul and Ellen. He’s also glad that he happened to have emptied a few rounds from the chamber earlier that morning. Otherwise this might have been long over already.

“Gods, you’re relentless,” she mutters against his lips, as if answering his idle thought. “You knew--you know what I needed--”

Her musings are cut short by her quick pants and eventual cry of release as a second orgasm shudders through her body, surrounding him.

He slows his movements, lets her ride out the little death. “That’s amazing,” he says, reverently. “You’re a frakking goddess.”

Her eyes are closed and she just hums in agreement. He continues to work against her, and when she opens them, her light green meeting his blue, it’s enough to send him over the edge--points of glowing light grow from behind his eyes to blur his vision and something snaps deep within, unleashing his release and sending his flood of passion inside her as she softly encourages him.

A few moments pass, both of them breathing erratically and he rolls off her, deeply satisfied. How had something as crass as a quick frak with this woman he barely knows come to feel...

_so much like lovemaking?_

He doesn’t challenge the thought, nor does he further explore it. All he wants to do, honestly, is take a nap with her beside him.

But she’s moving around already, leaning over the edge of the bed, apparently in search of something. “Did you need something?”

“Oh my,” Laura says, holding up the small bottle of lubricant she’s found in his nightstand drawer. _Superslick_ , the label proclaims. She looks from the lube over to him and smiles guiltily. “I was just looking for some tissues.”

“Humph. A likely story,” he says, though he reaches over to his side of the bed and snags the box off the low table there. He offers her the box and takes the lube from her. “Always good to be prepared, you know.”

“No judgment,” she says, waving the tissue in surrender before discreetly reaching down to wipe away their commingled fluids. She pushes herself up to a sitting position and he realizes for the first time how prominent her ribs are-- he could easily count each one. Still, the line of her spine is elegant, enticing. He wants to lick it up and down, to kiss her neck, to grasp her hips to his and take her from behind--

 _Easy, old man,_ his head warns his improbably stirring cock.

“I should go,” she interrupts his internal debate.

Well, that wasn’t acceptable. He looked at the clock; it was just past 1300. “Are you hungry? I can make us some lunch.”

She looks down the hallway toward the front door first, then to the door to his en suite bathroom. “Let me clean up, and get back to you about that.”

He nods as she gathers up her underwear and dress and goes into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her. He half-expects to hear the water of the shower running, and thinks how that might give him enough time for a nap, but when that doesn’t happen, he lumbers off the bed, ignoring the creaking of his joints, and pulls his jeans on, zipping the fly but leaving the top button undone when he remembers how she’d struggled with it. He doesn’t bother with a shirt.

The fridge has slim pickings, but he’s started heating up a container of leftover pasta and is slicing an apple and pear when she enters the kitchen, wearing his brown fuzzy robe. He smiles. “Looks good on you.”

“This look is a good one for you, as well.” She sidles up beside him and runs her hands over his bare arms appreciatively, rakes her nails lightly down his back. He shivers, remembering the feel of her hands on him, encouraging him with each thrust--

His knife slips and nicks his thumb. Laura raises an eyebrow at him, and he smiles sheepishly. “Sorry. A little distracted, I guess.”

Wordlessly, she tears a paper towel off from the holder and takes the injured hand in hers. She dabs up the spot of blood that had formed, then raises his hand to her mouth to place a chaste kiss there. “You’ll live,” she pronounces solemnly.

“Pasta with vegetables okay?” he asks, wanting to please her, to feed her. “I made it last night, it wasn’t half bad.”

She nods, then reaches over to snag a pear slice from the pile of fruit in front of him. “I thought I was going to leave.”

“I kinda thought you were, too,” he admitted. “But I’m glad you’re not.”

“Yet,” she clarified. “I think...I’m not done with you yet.”

He leans in, places a deep kiss to her lips. She’s sticky-sweet, tasting of the pear she’d just eaten. It’s delicious. “Good,” he growls. “I’m not done with you, either.”

The sides of the robe part beneath his hands, and he cups each breast lightly, enjoying the feeling of their firm fullness, the soft, warm skin and the thud of her heart just beneath. Her eyes are closed in pleasure.

“Laura,” he asks tentatively, “what happened--”

One eye cracks open, looks down at his hands on her tits. “Lumpectomy,” she says, the dullness of her voice closing the topic to further discussion.

He hadn’t wanted to assume... “Beautiful,” he replies, tracing his tongue along the scar from the underside of her breast up to the nipple.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “I haven’t--with anyone--since.”

“Thank you,” he says, straightening up and pulling her robe closed again. There’s too much material, and the sash refuses to stay very tight against her narrow waist. “For trusting me.”

“I do,” she says, her voice tinged with surprise.

“Then let’s eat,” he says, pulling out silverware to set the counter for them to eat side-by-side, “so that I can get you back into my rack and ravish you some more.”

She eats a decent portion of the pasta, he notes with pleasure. They don’t speak much ( _will they ever? do they even need to?_ ). Once he’s stacked their plates in the sink they feed each other fruit slices until they’re gone, exchanging knowing glances with one another in acknowledgment that they both need this recovery time but will be back where they started before long.

“It’s starting to rain,” she comments as she walks over to the window.

“It is,” he says, standing behind her and pulling her close against him. No sunbeams for the next go-round, but it seems that might be for the best. “Good thing you decided to stay.”

“For a little while,” she agrees, shifting her bottom against him.

 

* * *

 

This is getting ridiculous, but she still doesn't care. The gruff commander has proved himself an enthralling lover, a passable cook, and surprisingly pleasant company. She can hardly believe they've achieved this absurd domesticity after a single frak.

This doesn't feel like real life. This is some parallel existence, someone else's easy camaraderie and sexual compatibility.

"Just love someone," her mother had pleaded as she lay dying, concerned that her daughter would end up alone after her passing. "You've been so good to me, Laura, but you don't have anyone to take care of you."

She'd been sleeping with Richard even back then, and her mother had been right: she didn't have anyone to take care of her. And she'd been okay with that, for years.

But things are different now. She's been given these chances--an end to her relationship with Richard, a path toward remission, a random run-in with this gentle and alluring near-stranger. Her mother's parting words had first started stalking her as she huddled in the bathroom, deciding whether to stay or go, and they ring again in her ears as she turns to face Bill. This parallel existence is pretty appealing. "How about that book, hmm?"

He grins, and she thinks how he’d looked so unhappy when she’d first met him. What a contrast it is to now, all white teeth and good humor. It almost gives her hope that she can get there, too.

She follows him into the living room and lowers herself onto the well-worn brown leather couch. It warms to her body and she feels instantly at ease with her legs tucked up beneath her.

He pulls a book from the shelf and joins her on the couch, sitting next to her but not touching. She wants to be touching him. So she shifts over to lean against his shoulder.

Bill’s voice works well for narrating the mystery-- he doesn’t change the pitch very much to distinguish between male and female characters, but she begins to pick up on the nuances of his rumbles and growly flourishes as opposed to his clear Caprican diction as appropriate for each character. The story’s a good one, but he’s read less than thirty pages by the time she realizes that a nap is happening, no matter how engaging Prima’s plotting. Bill’s warmth, the comfort of the couch, and that voice lull her onto the cusp of a contented sleep.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, closing the book and stroking her hair. “You rest now.”

She hums and snuggles closer against him. Part of her wonders if this is the best way to use their limited time, if she shouldn’t just have him again and then get the frak out, but her muscles sing with relief as his hand sooths the length of her arm, the expanse of her back.

Her dreams are full of images of a lush green planet and a blanket of stars overhead.

 

* * *

 

Laura’s weight against him is a welcome burden, sleep-heavy and warm. It’s a surprise to him that she’s let her guard down this much, to curl up into his side and snore softly, but he’s grateful for it.

He’d wanted her, not the first time they’d met when she was all demanding and dour, but as soon as he’d seen her this morning in the bookshop. Now that he’d had her, he couldn’t help but look forward to the second time.

_Would there be a third? A fourth? Or was this a one-time deal?_

Better not to speculate, he decides as he lets himself drift off as well.

 

He dreams of her soft velvet heat surrounding his cock. He dreams of her moving over him, against him, circling her hips and clenching her inner muscles around him.

When he comes to, shirtless on his couch with _Dark Day_ face-down beside him, he realizes there’s a reason for his dream. Laura is kneeling in front of him and has freed his engorged dick from his jeans’ fly. Her mouth is wrapped around him, her tongue swirling and stroking.

“That’s a hell of a way to wake up,” he says, his voice still thick with sleep.

She responds by humming a little and looking up at him, slowing but not stopping her movements. Sleep-tangled curls bounce on her shoulders, falling across her face. He reaches out to push her hair back so he can better see her as she works his cock with her mouth and hand.

He’s sliding closer and closer to the edge. His mind hasn’t had a chance to catch up to his body yet, but the tightening in his balls brings him back to full consciousness.

“Oh, damn,” he gasps. “Frak. Laura.” His hand is at her shoulder, but he’s not sure whether he means to push her away or hold her there. The robe has slipped away, gathered loosely around her arms, and he’s seized by the need to see her beneath him, fully bare, once more. “Bedroom,” he groans. “Please.”

She looks up at him, eyes wide-- _are you sure?_ \--and releases him at his insistent nod. She pushes herself back from his knees and stands, adjusting the robe awkwardly.

His pants are already down past his hips so he kicks them off rather than bother with the effort of tucking himself back in. “Come on,” he says, grasping the material of the front of the robe and tugging her along toward the bedroom.

The robe makes its way to the floor by their shared efforts and he nudges her onto the bed. “So did you have a nice nap?” she asks innocently, batting her lashes at him.

“The best,” he says, clambering over her so they’re pressed together from toe to chest. “I was having this wonderful dream--”

“Mm-hmm?” Her lips are at his neck, her inquiry humming at his ear.

“--and then I woke up, and reality was even better.”

“Good,” she whispers.

 

* * *

 

His cock is between her legs, and he grinds gently against her hips. The sensation spreads a warmth through her limbs, though she suspects his body against hers might have something to do with that, too.

( _What would it be like, to fall asleep with him, here in this bed? To wake up with his arms around her?_ )

She pushes the thought away as her hands run through his hair, pulling his face closer to hers.

“More,” she purrs. A long leg winds around his and she tries to tilt her hips to allow him to enter her.

“Wait,” he grunts, lowering himself beside her. He gently rolls her away from him, onto her side, and curls himself around her with his lips at her shoulder and his hand between her legs.

Laura leans her head back against his and lets him explore her body, learn its responses. It’s as much for her benefit as his--it’s been so long since someone made the effort. Soon her sex is slick and swollen, the varying pressure of his hand and fingers deliciously building up her arousal so much more than his cock alone might have achieved. One finger circles her clit, flicks it back and forth, while another finger slides closer to her opening. She moans softly and rolls her hips against his hand, seeking more and more feeling.

She’s so wet. When she reaches behind her to grasp his penis and tuck it firmly between her thighs, it slides easily against her flesh, quickly coated in her juices.

“Bill, I want you,” she breathes. She arches against him, feels his arousal throb at her words. Having his cock behind her like this is exciting, thrilling--it would just take a little slip of her hips and he’d be sheathed inside her.

“How do you want me?” he growls back, and she nearly comes right then. She whimpers and rolls away from his body, onto her stomach, and looks at him over her shoulder.

“Frak,” he sighs, “you are going to kill me, woman.” He eases a leg over her body, followed by the rest of him, his weight distributed on knees and elbows on either side of her, pinning her down. It’s so much contact, her nerve endings are singing and he’s not even touching her pussy right now.

She wriggles beneath him, seeking the pressure of his hard cock. It’s there, pressed against her ass. “Do it, Bill.”

He pushes himself up a little and encourages her to do the same, which gives him room to move his hand under her chest and fondle her breasts: the right one, then the left. She groans as he pinches her nipples lightly, and reaches back to line him up. A slight flex of his hips and the head of his cock is enveloped in her heat--but that’s as far as he goes.

_”Do it.”_

That’s all the instruction he needs ( _finally_ ) and his free arm slides down from her breasts to under her stomach, lifting her up a little higher.

It’s such a different sensation from last time, when they were face-to-face, and she nearly wants to cry at how full she feels. He grasps her hips, pulling her closer with each thrust. “Gods,” she moans.

“Let go, Laura.” His hand has slipped from underneath her body to her hip and is now toying with the swollen bud of her clit. Her nipples brush against the sheets each time his hips bump her body forward. It’s a lot-- but she can take more.

_Let go._

Her body aches to be filled in a way that it hasn’t for a long time. And it’s not just the act, it’s _him_ who she wants to do it for her. A frictionless slide against that most resistant body part, stretching and pushing and finally accepting. It's all because of that frakking bottle of lube that she can't get the idea out of her head...

“You want to make me let go? Lose control?”

“Yeah,” he groans, giving her ass a little slap.

Laura reaches back to still him, then pushes forward to disengage their bodies. “Then--” she says, turning around and kneeling to face him. She traces her thumbs along the outside of his well-defined abdominal muscles, then wraps her arms around his waist and pulls his body back in contact with her own. His cock is still standing at full attention, and it only takes a small shift to slide it between her legs, against her clit. She’s on the edge, she’s playing with fire, but she wants to see how far this can go. “You’re gonna have to frak my ass.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, sliding his hand between his cock and her slick pussy, coating his fingers in her arousal. His fingers slip into her hot channel, then withdraw, and slide further back along her cleft, further and closer to where she wants him--

“Yesssss,” she moans as his finger gently pushes against the tight ring of muscle, finds the small opening there. His cock is still pushing against her clit, and they rock gently against one another, his finger moving infinitesimally deeper at an excruciating pace. “Gods, yes.”

“Turn around,” he murmurs against her ear. He strokes her once, twice, a third time before slowly withdrawing his finger completely.

“Yes, sir,” she says with a smile, arranging herself before him as he reaches over her to grab the lube from the nightstand.

She looks down at the grey sheets and takes a deep breath. She really wants to be looking over her shoulder at him, but she’s a little embarrassed that she’s demanded this of him, regardless of how positively he’s reacting to her request. Her forehead falls to the mattress just as she hears the pop of the lube opening.

“I can help with that, you know,” she offers.

“I got it.” The sound of slick flesh against flesh, his hand on his cock she presumes, confirms this.

She spreads her legs wide in order to drop her hips a little lower. She’s quivering in anticipation, and finally she does look back at him. “Please.”

He’s so beautiful in that moment, his golden skin pressed up against her lighter tones, his eyes hooded with desire. She nods at him encouragingly and the movement jolts him out of his stupor.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” he says as his cock slips up against her ass. It’s already sensitized from his fingers, and she pushes against him insistently.

“You won’t,” she says, unsure where exactly her confidence comes from. She’d felt how big he was during their first go-round, but she’s so ready for this, and she’s certain that she can trust him with her body, that he’s attuned to her responses. She gives him an encouraging smile before turning her head around again, looking up at the headboard and taking a deep relaxing breath as she awaits his intrusion.

The lube and the foreplay have done their jobs, and it only takes a few quick moments until he’s fully seated. Laura’s forehead drops down to the mattress again; her whole body is on edge, her clit and pussy aching for touch. “Gods, Bill, that’s so good.”

He’s still, his fingers playing at her hips but his cock not yet moving, giving her time to adjust. He laughs, a rough chuckle full of mirth that she can feel through the connection of their bodies. “It is good.” His hand reaches up her body to caress her right breast and squeezes gently, his fingers zeroing in on her nipple. The feeling inflames her desire and she bucks against him, needing him to start moving.

Bill groans as he starts moving in and out. “Gods, you’re so tight.” His strokes become less tentative and more rhythmic; she pushes against him with each one to feel him, deeper and deeper inside.

“I wanted this so much,” she confesses. “I want you.”

“You have me,” he grunts back, his hands fiercely possessive against her hips. “Come on, Laura. Tell me what you need.”

She reaches back to find his right hand and thrusts it between her legs, to her quivering clit and pussy. Her moans let him know when he’s found the perfect spot, his index finger making tight circles against her swollen nub. “Oh, gods,” she cries as two fingers slide inside her pussy, making her feel so unbelievably full. “Harder, Bill, harder.”

He’s quick to comply, thrusting into her with greater force. Each thrust sends a shockwave of pleasure through her muscles, but she remains on the edge, not wanting it to end. Finally she gently pushes his hand away from her cunt and beckons for him to lean closer over her. Her cheek settles on the mattress and she whimpers as his balls slap against her oversensitized sex.

“More,” she demands, though her voice has taken on a tone more dreamy than commanding. “So good, Bill. So frakking good.”

His strokes have become shorter, more erratic, and she smiles as her body cooperates with her intentions for once--a violent spasm racks through her, ripping from her lower body outward to her fingertips and toes, and it’s all pleasure, a total release of tensions and fears and an embracing of this moment and this man.

Bill keeps filling her ass again and again as she’s coming, stroking her with those talented fingers, and she’s grateful because it just magnifies the sensations and makes the orgasm that much sweeter. Once her shudders have subsided, he places one hand at her hip and the other on her shoulder for leverage, and it’s just a few more forceful thrusts against her boneless body that send him over the edge with a deep, satisfied groan and a sharp flex of his hips.

His withdrawal is far more painful in its loss than his gentle entry had been, and Laura briefly mourns the full sensation that had continued to feel so good even after she came. He flops onto his back beside her and she rolls over, too, and they both look up at the ceiling rather than at each other.

They lay there, shoulder-to-shoulder, sweaty and breathless. She should get up and start moving-- _he_ should get cleaned up, they both should--but she allows herself this. A few more minutes to bask in the physical sensations they’ve just elicited from one another.

He’s so warm beside her, olive-skinned and toned and vital. He’s made her feel that way too, his life force bleeding over into hers as they frakked.

As if he could frak her into remission, she reprimands herself.

He mistakes her resigned sigh for one of exhaustion. “You okay? Need to rest for a bit?”

She can’t handle the hopeful lilt to his voice. “I’d like that,” she admits slowly, “but I should probably just get cleaned up and head home.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath--in, out. It fascinates her how long it takes to do this one exchange of air, how much volume his lungs must hold. “Bill,” she says, warmly.

His eyes open. “Yeah?”

“I meant what I said--this was good. Really, really good.” She props herself up on her elbow and leans in to kiss him on the cheek. “I just have to go, because--”

( _because why?_ )

“--you know, life,” she finishes with a vague gesture toward the window and the rain-soaked world beyond.

“I see,” he says, and she’s not sure that he does. She’s not sure that _she_ does.

_Just love someone, Laura._

“Shower with me?” she asks.

 

* * *

 

The shower, granite-lined with a waterfall-style fixture and large enough for two, is both cleansing and soothing. The day’s activities have required more endurance than he’s had to prove for quite some time, not to mention used entirely different muscles.

She’s quiet and subdued--contemplative, perhaps. He doesn’t much feel like talking, either. Somehow they’ve said all there is to say.

He apologizes for the overly masculine scent of his only shampoo, but she just smiles and pours some into his hand. “Do you mind?” she asks.

 _As if he would._ “Of course not,” he responds, and begins working the shampoo through her drenched locks. A hint of sandalwood fills the steamy stall. “You have incredibly beautiful hair, you know.”

“Mmm,” is her noncommittal response. “So do you. I loved running my hands through it.”

_Loved?_

He gently nudges her body under the spray, tilting her head back to rinse out the suds. “What else did you like?” he asks in a low voice.

Her eyes are closed, either deep in thought or to avoid getting soap in them, but she takes a moment to consider. “Sucking your cock,” she says. “Feeling you, so deep and hard.” She stands up straighter and steps aside to let him take a turn under the water. She pushes her hair back and squeezes the water out in a move he can only view as reminiscent of her working of his cock.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she confirms. “And you know that I loved--”

“Yeah.” He does, she’d made sure of it. Gods, she’d been so vocal. _Harder. More. Bill._

“Amazing,” she says. “Your cock and fingers, everywhere, feeling every part of me.” She takes the soap from the dish on the bench and begins washing her arms, breasts, navel and below. She’s intent on her task and he indulges in the erotic sight for a few moments before gently taking the soap from her.

“Let me do your back?”

Laura giggles and turns around obediently. “All right.”

He wants to pull her lithe, slippery body flush against his own and hold her tight under the warm spray, to feel her heartbeat under his palm as one arm slips between her breasts and the other wraps around her waist. But she’s leaving soon, and for all her dirty talk, he senses a standoffishness returning that she’d managed to shed for just a while.

Her shoulders are relaxed, pliant under his gently massaging hands. He can’t help himself; he leans in closer, nearly resting his chin on her shoulder, and whispers into her ear. “You are so beautiful.”

She hums and relaxes against him, turning her head into the crook of his neck to murmur her own confession. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s made me feel that way.” She turns to face him and takes the soap to begin washing the smooth, nearly hairless planes of his chest, the solid muscles of his belly. “It’s been a good day, Bill.”

He’d put it at a little better than _good_ , but he tries not to be offended, and finds it impossible to dwell on the notion as her soapy hands slide through the thatch of hair below his navel and begin stroking his cock. He sighs in contentment, unable to harden in response after their day’s activities but enjoying the return of her touch nonetheless. Once his cock is clean, she works up some more suds and applies them gently to his balls, her fingertips massaging lightly before she slips her palm beneath to cup him.

“Almost done,” she says, and her soapy fingers slip past his balls to his perineum, applying a slight pressure that elicits a soft moan.

“You’re trying to get us dirty again,” he accuses, taking the soap from her hand and returning it to the tray and then removing her other hand from his balls.

“Hmm. Don't tempt me,” she says, and steps carefully out of the shower.

He gives himself a quick rinse and turns off the taps. The heat is gone, and it reminds him that soon she will be, too.

 

* * *

 

She dresses quickly, almost sloppily, by herself in his bathroom after Bill comes back with her clothes and a comb. She’ll be home in her robe with her hair in a ponytail none too soon, and no one will take note of the middle-aged woman hailing a cab on a busy city street. She’s vastly overstayed--it was supposed to be a quick frak, how was she to know he would be so wonderfully warm and soft and hard at the same time?-- but at the same time she’s afraid that if she doesn’t leave now, she never will.

The shower had been a bit of a wake-up call, a reminder of reality that returned as she scrubbed the sex off her skin.

Still, she has few regrets--she would’ve changed neither the man nor the acts in which they indulged. Bill-- _Commander Adama_ , she reminds herself, needing to regain that distance between the stiff military man she’d first met and this caring, wonderful lover she’d come to know in the past few hours--had accepted her as she came to him, scars and all. She couldn’t help but feel that a different, happier person had emerged from the sarcastic woman she’d been earlier that morning in the bookstore. She’s gloriously sore; strained muscles and bruised skin are a cherished reminder that will last beyond this day.

_Thank goodness she’d caught him looking._

But gratitude shouldn’t be her focus right now. Right now she needed to find her shoes, and her purse, and get out, lest they start frakking again. The man had the libido of a twenty-five-year-old. Not that Laura knew anything about that.

She exits the bathroom and surveys the bedroom, from the rumpled bedsheets to the wide glass windows framing a still-grey dusk. It’s gotten darker since she was last in the room, and the soft light of the bedside lamp helps her locate her shoes, one near the door and the other half-hidden under the bed. Her purse must be in the living room, or perhaps the kitchen, she thinks as she slides her feet into the comfortable black patent flats.

Bill’s obviously been in here and left, already; the clothes he’d been wearing earlier are either put away or on him, and she can hear a low crooning coming from the other side of the bedroom wall.

Laura feels a pang in her chest that has nothing to do with her illness.

Steeling herself with her best politician’s smile, she pushes past the bedroom door and into the open living area. “Well,” she says to get his attention, not looking at him as she glances around for her small bag, “I’ll be going now.”

“I’d love for you to stay for dinner. Or I could take you out, if you’d like,” he offers.

Laura bites her lip, wondering what to say to that. Apparently her silence is enough, and he holds up his hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. Go.” He walks from behind the kitchen island to face her, not coming close enough to touch, but close enough that, under the recessed lighting, she can see the little specks of gold in those deep blue eyes of his. “But can I see you again soon?”

She finally notices her purse on the floor, propped up against the leg of the coffee table. Mentally she runs through her schedule: far from the days of interworld travel and high-level meetings, it’s a whole lot of _nothing_ interspersed with a fair amount of _Delphi Radiology Institute_.

“I like to go to the Riverwalk and sit at the fountain,” she says impulsively. “Around lunchtime.” And it’s true, she does like it, she just doesn’t actually do it anymore now that she no longer works across the street and she routinely lacks the energy to navigate the throngs of people on market day. But maybe she will again. She moves closer to him and takes his hand in both of hers. “Thank you for a wonderful day, Bill.”

“Let me get your number,” he says, giving her hands a squeeze.

She smiles, then withdraws herself from his magnetic pull and bends down to pick up her bag. “If it’s meant to be, you’ll find me.”

She can’t look him in the eye as she says it.

Her hand is reaching for the doorknob when she sees his shadow jump across the pale wall. “Wait!”

“Hmm?” she says, trying not to ruin this lovely day with her impatience at being held up making her escape. She should have left more unceremoniously.

“The book,” he says, picking it up off the couch and folding it closed. He smooths the binding a little, and she’s inordinately fond of the little thrill she feels at finding out in that moment that he’s as much a bibliophile as she.

She accepts his offering, a little reluctantly, but it was a good novel; she’d like to finish it. “It’s not going to be the same without you reading it,” she admits.

He grins and holds out his hands in a gesture of unwittingly one-sided possibilities. “If it’s meant to be...”

Laura leans in and kisses him: just a quick peck, but it seems like the right move in this moment. “Goodbye, Bill.” She clasps the book to her chest and smiles over her shoulder at him as she steps out of this haven and back into the real world.

 _Is this it?_ she wonders. _Is this how I’m going to spend the rest of my days?_

It wouldn’t be such a bad thing, she thinks.

 

* * *

 

He keeps coming here, every couple of days. More frequently at first, though now his visits have dwindled to a mid-week visit or two. He can see why she said she liked it; the fountain is serene, and coming to its edge imbues him with a sense of peace. It’s enough, even though he’s come to accept that his original mission must be futile.

Nearly two months it’s been, and not a sign of her. She hasn’t been around the Riverwalk, and he knows she could track down his number if she wanted to.

_Just wasn’t meant to be._

He leans back for a moment, letting the sun’s rays wash over him. His eyes scan the crowd briefly--it’s instinctual at this point, he can’t resist checking several times a minute, even though he continues to be disappointed each time--then returns his gaze to the small print of yesterday’s _Caprican Times_ that had blown up beside him shortly after he sat down.

It takes his eyes a few moments to adjust--if they hadn’t forced him into retirement because of the whole _Valkyrie_ debacle and turning the _Galactica_ into a museum, he would have been ousted from active duty eventually for his ageing eyesight--and he skims the page of local news. Armed robberies on Caprica City’s south side; Tauron gangs suspected. The opening of a new park in Delphi, near the museum. Caprica City School District teachers, threatening to strike for the third time this year.

Another scan of the milling crowd, then he flips the bifold and turns his attention to the next section. Not that he expects to see anyone he knows (he doesn’t actually know that many people, not on Caprica) but out of a morbid curiosity and, truthfully, a lack of anything better to do than read the paper in its entirety.

His perusal comes to a halt at a grainy picture of a familiar face near the top of the right-hand page. The face he’s been looking for in the crowd, day after day, finally stares back at him. It’s a formal photo, a professional headshot befitting her former position, and in it she looks more like the pained, biting woman who took his ship away from him than the beautiful, carefree lover who’d shared his bed for an afternoon.

_Laura Roslin._

A shaky fingertip traces the regal line of her cheekbone, the long overly styled layers of her hair, before he brings the paper closer and forces himself to read.

_Former Secretary of Education. Longtime aide and advisor to President Adar. A brief illness._

He looks harder at her picture, then back at the final paragraph.

 _Preceded in death by her parents and two sisters._ No family. No one to mourn for her.

Images come back to him: an angry pink scar scrawled beneath her breast; the sunlight glinting off the coppery gold threads of her hair as she bent down to capture his lips with her own; her hand wrapped around his length, stroking mercilessly...

_If it’s meant to be..._

They’d only had that one day. As he closes the newspaper and looks out over the reflecting pool, he wonders what could have been.

If only they’d met each other sooner. If only she hadn’t been sick...

They could have been good together. If only they’d had more time.

He folds up the paper and heads toward home, his feet heavy with each step.

“Package for you, Bill,” the concierge calls from his station behind the front desk, barely raising his eyes from the Pyramid match on the little screen on the counter.

Bill blinks a few times. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Raul.”

His hand is still shaking as he fumbles with his key ring to find the little mailbox key. He removes a small stack of adverts and envelopes, and finds the package slip on top. No details, so he hands the slip over to the mailroom clerk and waits, curious.

It’s a plain padded envelope, his name and address scrawled in a tremorous script. No return address, though the postage meter printout says Ilythia Hospital-Caprica. Bill thanks the clerk and heads up the elevator, clutching the mail to his chest and trying not to remember the time they’d ridden up together, the tension between them growing thicker with each story ascended.

He waits until he’s inside his apartment and has a chance to pour himself a stiff three fingers of whiskey to sit down with the curious envelope and see what’s inside. It’s surprisingly heavy--

 _Oh._ His first view inside the envelope tells him it’s a book. He pulls it out and looks at the spine, and the tears that have been threatening since his eyes first came to rest on that grainy photo and three columns of text in the obituaries section finally start to fall.

_Dark Day._

“Dammit, Laura, it was a gift,” he mutters, leaning back into the couch and taking a long sip of his drink. The sharp burn trickling down his throat reminds him that he’s alive.

He sets the tumbler down on the coffee table and picks up the envelope, checking to see if there’s anything else. The envelope itself is empty, but when he picks up the book again, the pages fall open to where a folded sheet of paper lay between pages.

 

> _Dear Bill,_
> 
> _This was a pretty good mystery. I have to thank you for ensuring that I didn’t leave this world without having read Prima’s classic novel._
> 
> _I’m sorry I never went back to the Riverwalk after that day. I would have liked to see you again, truly._
> 
> _But life had other plans for me._
> 
> _~~I wish~~ _  
> 
> 
>  

 

  
Here the ink changed from blue to black. He wondered how much time had passed in between. How soon after their day together had she become so acutely ill?  


 

>  
> 
> _I’m grateful to you for giving me an afternoon of happy memories to get me through these past few weeks. And a story to distract me from these long, dull days at the hospital. (My former assistant was good enough to read it to me, but I have to admit, his voice has got nothing on yours.)_
> 
> _You’re a good man, Bill. I’m happy to have gotten the chance to know you, short though our time was. You made me feel so good while we were together that I felt less alone after I left._
> 
> _Be happy and have a good life._
> 
> _Laura._  
> 
> 
>  

 

 

He sits there for a moment, eyes closed, the weight of the book on his lap and her words heavy on his heart.

Was this really it? Their story still felt so unfinished.

As he drains the rest of his glass, he braves another look at the obit page and finds the address. The funeral should have ended by now, and the Gardens of Hera aren’t too far away.

Her letter gets tucked safely away in a drawer, though he’s sure it’ll be coming out again later today. He heads to the closet and rifles through a toolbox until he finds a small trowel. Grabbing the book and his keys, he sniffles a few times and walks purposefully through the door. He could do this. For her.

_Always faithful to the soil._

It was a gift, not a loan.


End file.
